My first week passed uneventfully. I was called out twice only, on
trivial cases, and I put in my spare time exploring the neighbourhood
generally. I was jaded with city life, and hospital work in
particular, and it was a perfect tonic to do nothing. I was too lazy
even to fish, though an excellent trout stream ran not far from the
house, through the woods at the back. Neighbours were not likely to
trouble me, nor I them. So far I had had but little intercourse with
the people about, except for professional visits and the usual
country exchange of greetings when I drove into the town for my mail.
In Lennox's time this task had fallen to Peter, but it was some years
since I had enjoyed the use of a horse, and I took pleasure in these
short trips.
The housekeeper was subdued but efficient; she looked after my wants
methodically enough and rarely offered conversation, which suited me.
With Peter I got on all right. As Lennox had said, he was docile,
willing and capable, and did his work reliably. He seemed devoted to
the mare, and would converse with her at great length over the
morning grooming.
Lennox had a fairly good library. In ways the house was comfortable
enough, and I fancy he must have had some small private income in
addition to the proceeds of his practice.
I had my first tiff with Pete when I had been there nearly a
fortnight. Kerosene had given out; the oilman had omitted to call as
usual, and Mrs. Searle, the housekeeper, only made me aware of the
deficiency at supper-time. After the meal I ordered Peter to hitch
up and drive down to the village to get it.
To my utter amazement he refused almost point-blank to go. He had a
lot of work to do; the buggy wasn't washed down yet; the mare hadn't
finished her feed. He'd go first thing in the morning.
"Nonsense, Pete," I said. "The oil's wanted now. The mare hasn't
done five miles today, and it'll do her good! You washed the buggy
this afternoon, because I saw you."
"Dat so, sah?" He rubbed his head. "Yes, I specs dat's so, now I
think. I dis-remembered it."
"Then hurry up. You can be back by eight."
His eyes rolled on me.
"But it done get _dark_ by eight, sah!"
"Well, you can take the carriage lamps!"
"I ain't gwine take no kerridge lamps--no, sah! All de time I wuk
fur Doc' Lennox he ain' ask me to do no thing like that--no, sah; an'
ef he ask me _now_ I ain' gwine do it."
"But you've driven the doctor at night, you fool, time and again!" I
cried, losing patience with him. "Don't stand there and tell me
lies!"
He kept his ground, obstinate, deferential.
"Yessir, I done druv Doc' Lennox. I ain' sayin' nothin' 'bout that.
I'se gwine drive you, doctah, ef yoh ask me, but I ain' gwine no
village affer dark tonight ter git no ker'sine. I ain' gwine
monkeyin' wi' no ha'ants, an' I d'want no ha'ants monkeyin' wid _me_!"
That potent darkie word "ha'ants" gave me a clue. I strode out into
the kitchen to Mrs. Searle.
"What's this nonsense with Peter? What is he afraid of?" I asked her.
Mrs. Searle's grey faded eyes rested on me a moment inquisitively.
Then she went on with her dish-washing.
"I reckon Peter's scared of the dark, sir," she answered civilly.
"Them niggers is jest like that! The oil can wait, as well as not.
There's more'n I thought, or I wouldn't have mentioned it to you."
"It isn't going to wait," I said. "I'm not going to have this
absurdity in any house I live in!"
I went back to Pete in the dining-room. I had left the doors
purposely open, and I swear he fairly squirmed when he saw me come in.
"Now, Pete," I said. "You put the mare in at once. You're going
after that oil and I'm going with you, if you're such a holy coward
that you're afraid to drive a mile of road after dark alone!"
If I had hoped to shame him, it was without result.
"All right, sah!" he answered grandly, though I saw the relief in his
eyes. "Ef you'se gwine I'se gwine. Dey ain' no one gwine call _me_
no cowa'd, doctah!"
He went off to put the mare in, and in ten minutes I heard the grate
of wheels before the house. It was already dark outside, but a moon
was rising, and before we had driven far the carriage lamps were
scarcely needed. Pete was subdued; I think he was trying to preserve
his dignity in silence. I was tempted to a lecture, but remembered
what Lennox had said of the futility of trying to combat darkie
superstition. I was sure that Pete still carried his beloved rabbit
foot, and I hope it gave him comfort on the drive.
We reached the village, took in our can of oil, which Pete stowed
under the buggy seat, and started to drive back. The moon was full
overhead now, but obscured more or less by fleeting clouds. I saw
Pete glancing several times at the buggy lamps. Presently he
slackened the reins a little.
"I reckon we mought put dem out now, sah! Dey ain' no need er dem
lamps to see by."
"As you like, Pete. Get down and put them out. I'll hold the reins."
"I ain't got no need er gittin' out, sah! I kin raich 'em from here."
He leaned over the splashboard at some inconvenience and extinguished
the lamps, it seemed to me with unnecessary alacrity. I could not
put his anxiety down altogether to the price of kerosene.
"What's your worry about those lamps, Pete?" I asked.
He turned guileless yet uneasy eyes upon me.
"Dey jest ain' no _sainse_ burnin' 'em! Dey worry a pusson drivin'
dem lamps do."
I let it go as one of his unplumbed darkie mysteries, and we drove
on. We were just entering upon the densest stretch of wood between
the house and the village when a curious sound caught my ears. It
was like the scrambling rush of some big bird through the trees to
the left of us; a night-hawk, probably, though the confused
wing-flaps were more like a turkey-buzzard. Coming unexpectedly on
the silence it startled me, but before I could turn to Pete he had
dropped the reins and flung himself upon me, a frenzied babbling
lump. He clung and muttered, while I strove to hold him off, and the
mare, taking fright at the moment, sent the light buggy rocking from
side to side on the road. I gave the man a push that nearly threw
him out. Once free of his clutch it was only a moment's work to
secure the reins, but we shaved a bad accident by the skin of our
teeth. Luckily we were not far from the house. My grip startled
Pete into sanity--it was at least flesh and blood that had him
there--and by the time I had pulled the mare to a standstill before
the gate he was able to get out, shaking still miserably from head to
foot, and seize the bridle.
Between us we got the mare unharnessed and into the stable. She was
in a lather over head and shoulders, and I stood over the cringing
Pete while he rubbed her down. I think he never ceased praying the
whole time.
Whatever the noise was that had frightened him--and I put it down to
no worse than an owl at the most--it had frightened him thoroughly.
There was no use attempting reason or rebuke with the abject
tooth-chattering being that followed me to the house, and I sent him
to bed with a grim reminder that I would talk to him on the morrow.
He did not go up immediately, however. For a long while I heard his
voice in confabulation with Mrs. Searle in the kitchen, where I did
not doubt he had made haste to secure every door and window against
the outside air.
I lit a pipe and threw myself down in an armchair in the surgery,
where I had been in the habit of spending the last few evenings,
putting things to rights after my own fashion. If Pete's
superstition was going to obsess him to this extent my summer was
likely to be a lively one! No bird that ever flew was sufficient to
justify the extraordinary state into which he had thrown himself.
Whiskey might be at the root of it, despite Lennox's faith; I had
kept him under my eye in the village, but I knew that no human
vigilance is sharp enough to keep a darkle from drink if he has the
tendency. The sideboard was usually unlocked, but tomorrow I
determined to take the key into my own possession.
Wanting something to read, and to lazy to go back into the
sitting-room, I fell to examining the contents of the surgery
bookshelves. There were the usual array of medical books, some new,
some old; apparently Lennox had kept himself more or less up to date.
At one end, on the upper shelf, were several volumes on mental
diseases, "Lunacy and its Causes," Hoffman's "Congenital Insanity,"
and one or two recent pathological treatises that I knew only by
title. There was a well-known medical work on criminology among them
also, and from their number and disposition, and the several paper
bookmarks that caught my eye here and there, I judged that this
particular study must have had some attraction for Lennox. There was
nothing, however, that interested me for the moment, or that promised
cheerful reading. I had not come down here to dive into works on
mental disorders or the bound reports of Lunacy Commissions as
preliminary to passing a healthful holiday, and I fell back on a
month-old magazine that was lying on the surgery table.
When I had finished it I turned the lamp slightly down and went out
on the porch, with the idea of trying to locate again the noise that
had caused such catastrophe that evening.
The woods about were very still; not a leaf moved. The silence had
an intensity that was almost oppressive. Clouds had gathered,
obscuring the moon, and it was quite dark.
Presently, above the line of the farther tree-tops, a gleam of light
shot up. It moved and swept, like a white arm outstretched against a
black curtain. So near as I could judge, it came from the direction
of Sliefer's dam, a point some two miles away, and at first glimpse I
thought it might be a fire, but the whiteness of it put that out of
the question. It had the appearance of a crude searchlight, but it
was less definite in ray and moved less steadily. More than anything
else, it reminded me of those "jackies" that children love to make
with a bit of prism refracted on a wall.
For several minutes I watched it, then, as suddenly, it was
extinguished, twitching back into darkness, and I turned and went
indoors.